by Peter Sasgen
Scott had two choices to escape detection by the Dane, and neither was good: break off from the Sea Eagle, fall back, and submerge in shallow water and risk bottoming and damaging the hull; or speed up and pull abreast of the Sea Eagle and hope that her great bulk would provide cover in which to hide.
Scott had only minutes to make a decision, but his instincts told him to wait, that the Danish patrol boat’s skipper might have something else on his mind other than a submarine trying to sneak through The Sound.
Alex’s gaze alternated between the starpom at the periscope and Scott standing in the middle of the CCP. Abakov, nodding, seemed to have grasped what Scott had intuited.
“He’s not after us, Starpom, he’s after that ferryboat for cutting ahead of the Sea Eagle. The ferry’s captain violated the rules of the road. The ferry is the burdened vessel and is forbidden to cross ahead.”
Alex looked frightened. “Jake, are you sure?”
“Starpom,” he said, “what’s that patrol boat doing now?”
The starpom had his eye to the scope. “Kapitan, you are right. He’s signaling with his searchlight. And he’s…he’s sheering to starboard…to catch up with the ferry at Helsingør.”
Scott wiped his face on a shirtsleeve. He caught the look of relief on Abakov’s face.
The K-480 exited the southbound channel at Helsingør Red and dropped from behind the Sea Eagle, which continued on her way, unaware she’d had company for the last two hours.
Still submerged, Scott began to ease the K-480 toward deeper water on the eastern side of Ven.
Surprisingly little traffic came their way and Scott let the starpom conn the boat around Ven, then farther south to Saltholm, where a tunnel under The Sound connected Malmö, Sweden, to Copenhagen, Denmark.
At Falterborev, a hook of land protruding into the Baltic from Sweden, a pair of Stockholm-class guided-missile patrol boats passed within a kilometer of the K-480 but didn’t react. A German naval oiler headed west toward Bornholm, which Scott had marked on the chart as their next objective, overtook them and steamed on by overhead.
“Once we get past Bornholm,” Scott explained to the starpom, “we’ll start our search for the K-363.”
After securing from battle stations, Scott had the messman break out tins of smoked sturgeon, black bread, and tea for the crew, followed by a small ration of vodka for each man. He toured the ship to praise the men for their performance during passage through The Sound. After conferring in the reactor control compartment with the chief engineer and main propulsion engineer on the status of the reactor and the repair to the main cooling loop, Scott headed to sick bay for a check on Botkin.
Alex caught up with him there.
“Jake, we have to talk,” she said hoarsely, looking at Botkin’s swollen profile.
“As soon as we get our communications traffic cleared up. Radioman’s working on it now.”
“Goddamnit, Jake, I said we need to talk. Now.”
“I’m listening.”
“Not here. Plus, I want Yuri to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“If it’s about”—Scott jerked his head at Botkin—“there’s nothing to say.”
She slowly turned and gave Scott a searing gaze. “It’s not about him. It’s not about us. It’s about the K-363. It’s about Zakayev and Litvanov. I told you, I’ve done some calculations.”
Another long moment passed before Scott said, “All right, get Yuri. We can talk in my stateroom.”
The room was small and they had to jockey around each other to fit inside. Scott hooked a metal chair leg with his boot and turned it around for Alex to use. He sat on his bunk while Abakov, arms folded, stood by the closed door.
“All right, I’m listening,” Scott said.
Alex put steepled hands to her mouth and took a deep breath behind them before starting.
“I don’t know if you’ll both think I’m crazy or not, but I want you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say.” She hunched her shoulders and shivered.
“The huge unanswered question that has been dogging us is what Zakayev and Litvanov are planning to do once they reach the Baltic Sea. I tried to think like they would—like any dedicated terrorist would, especially ones who had stolen a nuclear submarine. It seemed there was only one possibility: launch a cruise missile at St. Petersburg. But we know that there are no cruise missiles on board the K-363, only conventional torpedoes, which are not the kind of weapons a terrorist would use to attack Russia. So I asked myself: If Zakayev and Litvanov are not insane, what are they going to do?”
“No, they’re not crazy,” Abakov said. “They’re totally rational.”
“And unpredictable, you said,” Alex added.
“That too.”
“And that’s what influenced my thinking. In other words, I tried to think in unconventional terms about what was possible.” Alex hesitated for a moment, then continued. “We witnessed what Zakayev and Litvanov are capable of when they torpedoed that LNG tanker. It was devastating. Ships were sunk and sailors killed, and the blast probably terrified people in Scandinavia and Europe. They must have thought the world was ending. The terrorists did it just to throw the Norwegians off their trail, and their actions prove they’ll do anything to carry out their plan.”
She stopped and took another deep breath. “Stupid me, remember, I was worrying about what would happen if the K-363 was torpedoed and her reactor blew up underwater—Wait, hear me out, Jake. Two days ago Botkin prevented a disaster when he SCRAMMED the K-480’s reactor. If he hadn’t, the meltdown of the reactor core would have sent a plume of radioactivity over Scandinavia and northern Russia and, in time, around the world.
“Now imagine what would have happened if we had been in the Baltic Sea and had a reactor casualty we couldn’t fix. Imagine there had been no Botkin to drop the quench plates, that the coolant loop couldn’t be repaired, that a work-around couldn’t be rigged, that the reactor overheated and that the fuel assembly melted through the bottom of this submarine and dropped into the sea like hot coals into a glass of water. But it didn’t happen because you, Jake, and Botkin and the engineers knew how to prevent it. Now imagine a different scenario. Imagine a scenario where someone deliberately shuts off coolant to a submarine reactor or blows up its pumps and piping system so it will over heat and melt the fuel. I thought about the terrorist attacks on 9/11 in New York City and the effect a relatively isolated incident in Lower Manhattan had on the nation, and then I thought of New York Harbor, or Baltimore, or Long Beach.”
Scott looked at Alex but said nothing.
“Sabotage?” Abakov said.
Alex, fists pressed to her forehead as if in physical pain, said, “For God’s sake, don’t either of you see what I’m driving at?” She threw up her hands. “Zakayev and Litvanov don’t need any weapons aboard the K-363. The submarine itself is a weapon! Their target is St. Petersburg. And we have to warn Washington and Moscow—now!”
Her gaze bored into Scott and Abakov processing what she’d told them.
“Jesus Christ, don’t you two get it?” she said.
“Are you telling us,” Scott said as it started to dawn and his mouth went dry, “that Zakayev and Litvanov and the crew of that sub are on a suicide mission?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Alex shot to her feet. “They’re going to blow the sub’s reactor in St. Petersburg! Drive the boat right up the Neva into the harbor! The radiation released will kill thousands of people.
Including the President of Russia and the President of the United States!”
Scott, Alex, Abakov, the starpom, and the senior watch officers huddled around a chart of the Baltic Sea on the navigation table.
“I’m no climatologist,” Alex said, “but, given the westerlies that blow over Russia from the Atlantic Ocean and North Sea, a radioactive plume released in St. Petersburg might even reach Moscow. Both cities will be uninhabitable for years.”
“We learned in school,” said the starpom, “that fi
fty million people live within a hundred miles of the Baltic Sea coast. It would be a disaster.”
Scott said, “As you know from experience, once a reactor is starved of coolant, it overheats very quickly. If coolant is not restored, the reactor core will melt down completely in about two hours. Set in motion, and past a certain point, there’s no way for the terrorists to stop it even if they were to change their minds. They’ll die within hours from gross radiation exposure. What is it, Yuri?”
Abakov, his bald head reflecting light from the pantograph lamp shining on the chart, said, “I agree, Zakayev will not waste time now that he is so close to his objective. But don’t forget, he can only do what Litvanov allows. In other words, Litvanov is the consummate tactician and will not do anything that will endanger the mission no matter what Zakayev wants. We saw it when he torpedoed the LNG
tanker, to get the Norwegians off his back. If we trap him, he may fight back like a cornered bear rather than hide.”
“I agree,” Scott said, “that we’re in for a fight.”
He picked up and reread Radford’s message that the persistent ELF transmissions had indicated was waiting for them on an SRO communication satellite:
SERIAL 291159SRO TANGO/ALFA
FLASH FLASH FLASH
FM SRO/LANTFLT
TO COMM/BADGER ONE
//QUERY ONLY//OPAREA BRAVO SIERRA//
1. BREAK RADIO SILENCE AND REPORT STATUS K-363/ REPORT K-363 COURSE
SPEED AND POSITION IF KNOWN/ UPON CONTACT ENGAGE AND DESTROY REPEAT
ENGAGE AND DESTROY.
2. REPORT OWN POSITION IMMEDIATELY/ UPDATE AT FOUR HOUR INTERVALS IF
POSSIBLE.
4. SRO ADVISORY//RUSS NORFLT DEPLOYMENT KALININGRAD ASW OPS VS K-363/
NORFLT FORCE SIZE AND STRUCTURE UNKNOWN/APPROPRIATE PRECAUTIONS
ADVISED.
5. NCA REVIEWING STATUS BADGER ONE AND WILL AMPLIFY WHEN POSSIBLE.
6. END MESSAGE/RADFORD///
“Our only advantage now is that Zakayev and Litvanov may be distracted by the Russians moving into the Baltic,” Scott said.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Abakov said. As you said, he’ll likely do everything he can to reach their objective, even if it means attacking them and us.”
Alex turned from Abakov to Scott. “Does he know we’re here?”
“I’ve assumed that all along,” Scott said, scratching out a message on paper.
“What are you going to do?” Alex said.
“Fill Washington in.”
“Will they believe it?”
“Can they afford not to?”
“I hear him.”
Litvanov huddled with his sonarman. Green tendrils of captured sound at three hundred hertz from the K-480, designated Target Alpha, crawled down the monitor. Another contact, a plodding container ship heading north, had been designated Target Beta and ignored.
“He’s working his way out of the northern passage, south of Bornholm,” Litvanov said.
“Do you think he hears us?” Zakayev asked.
“If he does, we’d have seen him react. He’s being cautious; perhaps he smells something.”
“How far away is he?”
“Range, ten kilometers, General,” answered Fire Control. “I make his speed ten knots.”
“He’ll walk right into our torpedoes,” Veroshilov said gleefully.
Litvanov commanded, “Fire Control—target acquisition. Flood tubes three and four.”
“Kapitan…”
Litvanov swiveled to the reserve sonarman working shoulder to shoulder with the senior man. “What is it?”
“I’m getting a slow bearing rate contact astern—pinging now, sir.”
“Shit. A Russian patrol boat, I’d bet on it. Bearing.”
“One-nine-one. I’ve got another one, sir. Same slow bearing rate. Fading. Thermal distortion.
“Range?”
“Twenty kilometers,” reported Fire Control.
Litvanov watched the new contacts’ tendrils move down the monitor. “They’ll have to wait, but keep an eye on them. Now, let’s get our friend in the Akula. Stand by to fire torpedoes.”
“Sonar?” Scott barked.
“Nothing, sir, except a container ship. Very poor conditions. Very cluttered sound picture….” He held up anopen hand.
“What?”
The sonarman clamped the earphones to his head with both hands. “Pinging. Pinging to the north.”
“Russians. They didn’t waste any time. All right, let’s move it. Come to periscope depth. We’ll poke up a mast and send.”
“Aye, Kapitan, periscope depth.”
“Will the K-363 pick up our radio burst?” Alex asked.
“They will if they have an antenna up and are listening. I don’t reckon they will.” Scott glanced at Alex watching the depth repeater now at thirty-one meters. Despite the sheen of perspiration and grime on her face, she was still lovely and desirable. He remembered their lovemaking in Moscow and how vulnerable she’d seemed. But reality intruded and he wondered what the reaction in Washington would be when the message that she had unraveled Zakayev’s plan landed on the desks of men who had the president’s ear. He had no idea what had transpired between Washington and Moscow but sensed that something had gone very wrong. Alex had gotten it right: He was their garbage man and would have to clean up this mess too.
“Approaching periscope depth, sir,” said the starpom.
“A transient!” The senior sonarman spun around in his seat to face Scott. “A transient! Torpedo tubes flooding! Bearing zero-one-zero!”
Almost dead ahead.
“It’s the K-363,” Scott said, then commanded, “Both engines ahead flank, right full rudder. Take her down, sixty meters. Stand by decoys! Bastard’s got the drop on us.”
The K-480 accelerated hard. As she clawed for depth, the deck dropped away underfoot like an out-of-control elevator.
“Torpedo fired! I hear the launch.” A moment later. “Pinging. It’s hunting for us.”
The Russian TEST 71-M torpedo, inbound at forty knots, had gone active.
“Both engines slow,” Scott commanded. “Fire a decoy!”
A blast of air and rise of pressure against eardrums signaled that the decoy had burst from one of the K-480’s bow tubes and sped off at a right angle to the submarine’s course.
“Left full rudder, both engines ahead full!” Scott ordered. The screw bit in, propelling the K-480 left and away from the decoy and inbound torpedo. Scott knew that if he jumped off their present track, leaving behind both a knuckle in the water and a decoy to seduce the inbound torpedo, they would have a chance to escape.
“Sonar,” Scott said, moving across the CCP. “I want the position of the K-363—now…”
“Aye, Kapitan.”
“…and stand by tubes one and two.”
“He hears it, Kapitan. He speeded up and turned—ah! Decoy in the water!”
“Range to target?” Litvanov demanded.
“Under three thousand meters…. He cut his engines. Drifting. I’ve lost him, sir.”
“Our torpedo is still active?”
“Still active, Kapitan.”
“Do you have a bearing on his decoy?”
“Three-three-one but rapid drift to the north.”
“While our target is moving south.”
“Torpedo is turning north, I think chasing the decoy…. Yes, Kapitan, definitely chasing the decoy.”
“Wasted. We’ll turn south, find him and try another shot—”
The sonarman bolted upright. “Kapitan—a torpedo!” He was almost indignant. “He’s fired at us.”
Litvanov didn’t hesitate. “Decoy—fire!”
Alex had sought cover beside Abakov. Scott wanted to tell her there was no place to hide but was too busy trying to evade the K-363’s torpedo. He recognized naked fear on her face—on Abakov’s face too.
On the faces of the men in the CCP. His mind, struggling to understand the ta
ctical situation, made his own fear bearable.
The busy picture he had was of two submarines engaged in a dance of death with two torpedoes in the water hunting for a target and two noisemakers designed to draw them off. Even so, one of the torpedoes might get lucky and find its target.
“Transients. Flooding tanks. High-speed cavitation, Kapitan. Target’s running east.”
“Away from our torpedo.”
When the noisemakers died, both torpedoes would continue to hunt for targets until they either found one or their batteries ran flat.
“Sonar, where’s the torpedo fired by the K-363?” Scott said.
“Bearing zero-one-zero, drifting right. Opening out.”
Scott looked at Alex and Abakov. “You can relax. It’s moving away from us. Let’s hope it doesn’t find that container ship.”
“It was close, eh?” Abakov said, his face pale gray.
“Our decoy drew it off. His decoy will probably do the same to ours.” He said to Alex, “Are you all right?”
“I can handle it,” she said. “What about the message? Can we send it?”
“Not with the K-363 firing torpedoes at us.”
“Jake, we can’t wait any longer. They’ve got to know.”
The sonarman broke in. “The K-363, Kapitan, she’s turned due north.”
“Where’s our fish?”
“I’ve lost it, sir.”
“The message will have to wait. Let’s get after the K-363.”
18
St. Petersburg
T he president stood by a gilt window in the north façade of the Winter Palace and gazed out over the Neva, gold in the setting sun, and at a pair of empty cruise boats moored below the Palace Embankment.
“Must be killing their business,” the president said.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Paul Friedman.
“The FSB closed the river to traffic for the summit. The Moyka too. No tourists. Those cruise boat owners must be feeling it.”
“I imagine so. But the rivers will be reopened when the summit concludes.”
“I sympathize with them, Paul. There are still three days to go, and like them, I’ll be glad to have this business over with.”
Friedman nodded, though he wasn’t sure what business the president would be glad to have over, the summit or the hunt for the K-363 in the Baltic Sea. Both, he suspected.